


By the West, By the North

by WhiteRoseOfRivendell



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Before Fellowship of the Ring, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fond farewells, Innocence, Kissing, Legolas is adorable, M/M, Mischevious Aragorn, Mischievous Legolas, Young Love, winter is coming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8354308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteRoseOfRivendell/pseuds/WhiteRoseOfRivendell
Summary: Legolas remembers the first time he and Aragorn admitted their affections in a place very special to the both of them. The realization of it's meaning becomes more heart-breaking than he could have imagined.





	

The thickset mist rolled in unhurriedly from the sea. The way it moved was seamless, and soon it would turn the world to grey. The most important, or mind you, prominent pieces of the land could sometimes be seen protruding their shadowy ridges and angles into the sky, but not this day. The land itself would be muted now; a pale reminder of the year past, at rest in vivid anticipation of the wintry days ahead. One could deduce the end of fall with no more than a turn of the head or full breath of air. No plant near could be seen with nary a yellow blossom, and the red-orange hues of the surrounding trees were a thing of days traveled past. The fade of the air upon the world made the sea as molten glass. The cliffs ascending from its depths were as a wall beside a flooded floor. It hummed with whiteness and shone with cream glitter. The sand below splayed out with patterns of the water's pull. A single footfall upon it and one could tell that the chill had set in and would remain in residence for the next few months.

One day out of any could this have been seen, as time panders to the onset of winter. It allows itself the indulgence of a slow transition when the mood strikes it right. Winter, fickle thing that's it is, sometimes awakens with a yawn and a long stretch, pulling its feet back from the floor if the temperature is not to it's liking. The days may drag, the scenery unchanged. It allows for an appreciation by those subject to it, if they should wish to carve out a moment to truly observe. 

Today was the day he chose to see it.

Legolas stood, wondering beside the ocean. Silent and still was he, though no thought stood unturned. He had seen the ocean before, as he had seen many an Autumn. On this specific trip had he visited, but this day only had he thought upon it. This day was different. The wind should not have chilled him, but it did. The mist covering the land with sly intention should not have brought melancholy, yet his heart was solemn. His stoic face should not have been wet with tears, but it was.

He thought about the day this had all begun, the step that preceded the stair, and what it was that had compelled him to climb.

***

He had been on the road; set out from Mirkwood on his father’s errand, he decided that his journey to Ered Luin would be a leisurely one. The road would be long and the autumn had decided to accede to winter's wishes a bit earlier than expected. A chill was set upon the breeze, which would soon turn to a staunch wind. Traveling such a great distance, one might be waylaid by any number of weather related obstacles. And so the young elf did not trouble himself to ride hard nor long. When night fell, he stopped and made camp, when he was hungry he found an enjoyable spot to rest and eat, and when duty compelled him, he would send word to his father. Whether the word was sent with omitted truths was a discussion for another time. In this moment, he was away from Mirkwood and his father's leverage. Journeying through the mountains was more trouble than he had originally thought, and the last week had been racked with peculiar happenings. He thought at one point that he may have run into what he had heard mortals refer to as a streak of bad luck. Now that he was nearing Emyn Uial however, things had calmed. He was enjoying the flat, open grasslands and prominent expanse of clear blue sky. He viewed the mass of trees and hills before him in the distance as a new adventure. For all the traveling he had done in the North, he had never explored the Hills of Evendium.

Reaching the hills had taken more than a days ride; which Legolas regarded as just the right amount of time, being that the grasses had been quite high and the landscape unaccommodating. At least, that was the report he had sent back to his father. The young elf smirked and breathed deeply. He now followed a most inviting brook through the sparse forest and it beseeched him to explore its fine meanderings. The horse that he was riding was in need of water. Besides, the trees also seemed to beg him to pause and rest among them. The small, slipping stream watered the two travelers well and soon Legolas sat back against a friendly oak that had been so kind as to stretch out its roots. The ride had not been at all tiring. Legolas had felt that he could go on, but now as he lay in the quiet wood, rest found him. For not but a moment's time, he shut his eyes to listen to the symphony being played in D minor, resonating throughout one of Middle Earth’s woodland halls. When suddenly his senses picked up something near.

His head turned then, picking out a particular smell that had, it seemed, intentionally whipped by his face. He opened his eyes and shook his head. The smell was familiar, though he was not sure who or what it was. There was no sign of anything or anyone around, even with his keen hearing and sight. However, he felt it. He felt something or someone close. Legolas breathed in a long, drawn breath; he wanted to keep that smell, curious as to what it belonged to.

But the air was gone now, and only the fresh scent of the forest remained.

 _It could have been my mind..._ he thought, _...No matter._

And that had been the end of it. Legolas had collected his horse and belongings and went back to the road. It did not occupy his mind again till a week after that noon.

***

Elves rarely bothered to stop in a town of men, nor did many care for their company. Legolas, however, had much more experience with men than most; with certain men anyway. Plus, he was in need of more food. He had grown careless in the wood, once even losing some of his stores from his pack. It was not a behaviour found in him, and he was bewildered by the strange occurrence. But that was neither here nor there, and now it was too late to be hunting. His logic dictated him to stop, so he did. The elf-prince donned his cloak and walked into the village, thanking the twilight for its ever deepening shadows. There was a quaint tavern to his right, and it was here that he pulled his steed to the side, telling him to wait until it was clear that they would be welcome.

He did not immediately reveal himself to the crowd. The singing and cavorting their way about the room, and subsequent balconies, offered the distraction he had been hoping for. Legolas slipped in and scanned the room. He found it best at times such as these to blend in and not draw attention. More often than not, no one questioned, as mortals tend to like to believe what is shown to them. A young man standing aside in a corner would be of no consequence and he could be on his way presently. The tavern was warm, and Legolas looked around to see a rather large fire blazing a few lengths from where he was standing. He smiled at the comfort, displaying his white teeth beneath his navy hood. 

“What might I be doing for you, young sir?” the innkeeper asked from Legolas’ left.

“I am in need of food. I am on the road and night has fallen quickly this eve,” the elf turned his head slightly, acknowledging the man, "I will not stay long."

As he was standing to the elf’s left, the innkeeper could scarcely see the milky triangle of Legolas’ face revealed from behind the cloak, “No trouble, no trouble at all. Do you have business here in town, good friend?” the innkeeper asked from beneath a large furrowed brow.

Legolas’ face was fully revealed then, his visage now turned to view the entirety of the portly man, “My business lies elsewhere,” the affronted prince-ling shot back. He was not so much angry, but unaccustomed to prying mortals. He had long since returned to the Mirkwood and scarcely left its borders. He liked mortals, but they were very much different in their every day interactions.

“My mistake young sir, I meant nothing...nothing at all,” he clapped his hand on Legolas’ shoulder, "Come!" The innkeeper brought him over to the bar and poured him a warm spiced cider from a dark barrel along the stairs’ wall.

“Thank you, but I have no need for drink...”

“Nonsensical! Drink it down. Good for the weary...”

Legolas smelled the mug. It was inviting. He had not yet come across this particular drink. Elvish wine and spirits were what he had grown accustomed to. Now, sitting with a steaming cup of what reminded him of the apple trees in the heat of late autumn, he relaxed and smiled. For the golden sun shining through the leaves, making the orchards sing, was not to be forgotten aside the seasoning of an age. He gingerly sipped the strange drink. It was thin, but danced upon his tongue with wild abandon. It was not unlike the juice of those precious autumn apples; though mere juice did not make one eye close and the other squint when one finally swallowed it. It made his stomach feel empty and full at the same time. He took a few more mouthfuls. A slow warmth began to fill his chest, making its way down his back, and settling in his legs. 

“There, good,” the innkeeper quipped, nodding his head and handing the elf a second mug, “So, are you traveling far Mr. ...”

“I am headed west.”

“Family or business...” he wiped the counter mechanically.

“Is there much of a difference?” _In your world..._ he was about to say, but stopped himself sharply, attracting a small glance over from the innkeeper.

The man laughed, his hard jaw thrown back with the chuckle, “I suppose not sir, I suppose not.”

Legolas softened and smiled a bit at the innkeepers response; but the smile was interrupted by a long yawn. He covered his mouth apologetically.

“You must stay the night young master,” he moved from behind the counter.

“No, thank you kindly...” Legolas stood and stepped back, attempting to politely refuse the warmhearted innkeeper.

“Nonsensical! Why, my nephew, bless him, once rode longer than he should have. Poor youngun' fell off his horse in the late hours, was never the same again. Where is your horse?” the innkeeper put his arm to Legolas’ back. The elf hardly had a chance to put down his now second empty mug as the man escorted him to the stair, “I shall have him tended to. You can stay in the fifth room to your left, just up the stairs,” he gently pushed the elf up the first step, as one would a child being sent to bed. 

The elf-prince looked back at the man, who smiled, winked, and shoo'd him on. Legolas had not meant to stay, as he was set on riding a bit further and then stopping to rest off the road. But now a certain comfort had set in. The new acquaintance he had found was amiable, as he had imagined mortal fathers to be; and it amused him that though he was many years this man's senior, he was still being treated as if he were barely through his first decade. Plus, the warm redwood of the fire-lit tavern made everything a bit welcoming, a hazy sort of inviting. 

_It must be the fire...he thought._

He found himself walking up the stairs and down the hallway. It was dimly lit with blue moonlight flooding in through a frosted window at the end. A tattered rug lay beneath his feet as he walked, and he felt the smooth panels of the wooden walls. The texture no doubt arose from many a drunken patron stumbling their way along. It was a worn-in, natural thing in mortal establishments that he had found in his limited experience. He treasured the appearance of their dwellings not because of any special skill, but because of the way in which they inhabited them. They were not the austere halls of elves, polished and pristine. They were homes and hovels, perfect in their imperfection. Perhaps he missed the world outside of Mirkwood; perhaps he missed the people even more.

The door across from his was open and the moonlight from the room’s window made a shadowbox of light upon the entrance to his chamber. He turned and peered into the room. It was cold there; chilled, as if someone had left a window open. But this window was clearly shut, and the room empty. It was lighted by the moon only and shadowed in the blackest of pitch. His keen eyes made out the frame of a bed resting to the left and a fireplace to the right, accompanied by a chair and table. The ashes did not smolder, and it looked as if no one had been in the room at all.

 _Funny that the door should be left open,_ he thought.

But that was none of his mind and he had lingered long enough. The elf turned back and let the room be, opening his own swiftly. His room was dark as well, but even more chilled than the hallway. His fire was smoldering, light wisps of smoke swirling up the dark chimney. Legolas looked up to see his opposite, but identical window wide open.

_How peculiar..._

“Is everything ok, young sir?” the innkeep’s voice startled Legolas, even though he had called from the end of the hallway. The elf looked to see the man standing at the top of the stair, candle in hand, along with a small plate of food.

“Did you mean perhaps the right room? This one is chilled. The window has been left open and has spoiled the fire.”

The man walked toward Legolas, his gait hard and focused, “Well now, that’s odd,” he scratched his balding head. He motioned to the opposite room, “This one seems to be empty. You are welcome to it. I will tend the fire if you would like.”

"Do you not know if it is occupied?" 

"Oh," he shook his head, "Folks tend to come and go around here. I did have a fellow in here, but it's not often he stays at length. Don't you worry. Now, let's get it warmed up in here," he walked in and set the candle and plate on the table.

“You have been very kind. I thank you for your hospitality. I will tend the fire and allow you to tend to your business, good sir,” Legolas replied. The chill did not bother him, though a fire didn't sound like a bad idea. He was at his leisure and more than willing to put this experience down in his journey as an indulgence...or rather, an unexpected delay.

 _Perhaps this is a good time to send word to my father,_ he laughed to himself.

The man smiled, a slight twinkle in his eye, "You make yourself at home," he patted Legolas on the shoulder and walked out of the room, “Goodnight master elf,” the innkeeper called over his shoulder as he once again reached the top of the stair. Legolas’ head popped back out of the room, but the man was already out of sight. He smiled and closed the door behind him. The room was dark, but he could see well enough. There was some wood for the fire and he was able to get the flames large enough to feel the warmth on his face. He liked the way they danced. It reminded him of a time, seemingly long ago, when he too danced with abandon. His partner, a man of the wilderness, with whom he found a deep connection, sat laughing at the antics. Until, that is, Legolas had grabbed his hands and wrenched him from his seat. They had spun about and fallen to the ground. He had never known the mirth of man before that moment. Never saw the glimmer in a mortal eye whose joy was aimed directly for him. Though they lay covered in the dust of the earth, he had never seen a man so clearly. And he had never forgotten it.

Legolas lay beneath the heavy, cotton blankets. It was strange, so unlike the smooth fabric of elven sheets. He was not going to sleep per se as the mortals did, but pulling the blankets around his thin body felt very snug and cozy. The elf slid down into them and felt his hot breath bounce off of the cloth, warming the small chamber around his head. He lay very still there in the darkness and quiet.

“Aragorn!” 

The elf shot up out of the covers. That was the smell that had been on the wind that day. The memory had reminded him of the ranger and their wanderings together. The two had become famous companions and Aragorn would make sudden and unannounced visits to Mirkwood. Legolas always made sure to run out and find him as soon as his presence was known in the forest. The elf-prince favored good-natured tricks to warm greetings, and the man always gave him a particular smile after he had been found out. It was not the brilliant smile that sometimes graced the unshaven, weathered face. That smile would brighten even the darkest of places, where normal light would dare not reach. This particular smile that bound itself to Legolas' heart was hidden, but genuine. It began as a smirk, one side of his mouth curling. His head would bow, tangles of dark brown hair falling beside his face. The elf knew it spread to the man's whole face then, but when his head would once again rise, the smile would have diminished back to it's original state. Only then would Aragorn grab him and tug him into a warm embrace. Legolas never knew if the smile returned, only the creatures of the forest would know as they watched the two friends' fond greeting. 

But his visits of late had been less and less. Legolas had not seen nor heard of his friend in quite some time. The foliage had changed without him this year. Legolas had missed Aragorn and his particular smile, but had not fully realized it until this moment. Now, the scents and sounds and goings on of the evening had led him to remember. The smell was long gone from his nose, yet he could still pick out the ranger’s scent in his mind. It was the scent of brush and rain. Of brown, dead leaves, crisp and crackling beneath the first heavenly teardrops; prone to trample by as much as a sparrow’s talon. He found himself longing for it.

_If Aragorn were here, he would surely make himself known._

This thought was his last as he drifted off to rest.

***

The musings of the night still haunted Legolas till the noon of the next day. The dawn had come quickly and the elf had left at first light, leaving a generous amount in gratuity for the hospitality. He walked now, pace for pace with his horse, through the bright wood. It was cold. The night had brought snow and it covered the ground in white. The midday sun shone through the trees and made patches between the shadows that gleamed and sparkled. The patches grew together to make one expanse of pure brilliance as the sun shone at it's peak in the November sky. He walked along, unhindered and taken away by the shimmering landscape. It was quiet. The animals were asleep within their homes. Branches wore heavy their burdens, but did not seem unhappy to do so. There were no shadows here, not now, as the noonday sun approached its throne high atop the billowy clouds. It was not alive, but it was not dead; the land simply was.

A sudden flurry of snow sent his horse rearing with disapproval. Legolas saw a dark figure fall out of the corner of his eye, which sent him reeling back as well, in preparation to defend himself.

But his sword soon went slack. 

He gazed upon the ranger as he stilled, perched atop the sharp incline of a rock. He was bathed in cold light, though clothed in deep red. The rags of his occupation were gone; in their place, robes of fine scarlet.

“Aragorn," he sheathed his weapon, "Why did you not make yourself known to me before?” Legolas asked his breath slowing. It was not often that he was caught so off-guard.

But the man still sat. One leg steadied him, while the other balanced. He smiled slightly, mischievously.

_Was this a vision?_ The elf pondered as his brow furrowed. _Why has he not spoken?_

Legolas cautiously walked over to where his friend remained still and silent as a the landscape surrounding them. He reached out his hand. Aragorn’s arm came swiftly from where it lay at his side and grabbed the elf’s forearm. Legolas’ breath hitched; the sudden action startling him. Though soon he would relax, his breath allowed loose once again as Aragorn pulled him into a strong embrace.

The man smiled into his the crook of his friend's neck, "I thought you might require a taste of your own medicine after all this time."

Legolas pulled back gently and looked him in the eye with sorrow, “Forgive me, Aragorn.”

The man paused and tilted his head, his face suddenly serious, “You need never ask for forgiveness from me, Legolas.”

“The Fall came twice upon Mirkwood, and you were not there. And all this time, I had forgotten you...I...”

“Surely you remember me now?” Aragorn looked Legolas in the face and smiled, his hands remaining on the elf's shoulders. He squeezed them warmly.

The elf smiled back, a bit relieved that Aragorn was not upset. Time ran differently for mortals. Years did not pass as quickly. Though Aragorn was one of the Dúnedain, his life would, at some point, be over. Legolas was conscious of this fact, though he found no pleasure in it's existence.

“It is good to see you, Legolas. I have missed you these many months. Perhaps I should be the one to ask for forgiveness? It has been too long.”

“I have missed you as well. How long have you been following me?"

"A little more than a fortnight. I was sure you had found me out," Aragorn replied.

"I was not sure until last night when I thought of you. I remembered your scent; it was with me a week past."

"Yes, I came too close...it was careless. I stayed back for a while after that. I was anxious to see you, but I did not want to give the game away."

"Then I have taught you well, my friend," Legolas smirked.

Then there it was, the particular smile he had so longed to see again. Aragorn's cheeks flushed and he looked to the ground beside them, chuckling. It was a most endearing sound. When their eyes met again, Legolas' eyes welled with the tears of lost time. It was an unexpected reaction and it was the elf's turn to look away.

Aragorn reached up and caressed the chilled skin that ran smoothly along high cheekbones and a delicate jaw, "I have missed you," Aragorn said softly.

Legolas leaned into the touch, closing his eyes, and it prompted the man's other hand to cradle his other cheek. The elf sighed and opened his eyes to look upon his companion from behind long lashes. The face was familiar. It brought about memories of days past, ones that were not lightly forgotten. They were memories of travel, of the unknown in a life already long-lived. Of people and musings, brilliant and grey, they swung around his mind and created in him a fondness that he had never known. Upon impulse, he took one step forward, closing the already minimal gap between them. His chest hovered close to Aragorn's and it heaved with trepidation. His hands came to rest upon that broad chest, feeling the soft material beneath his fingers. Mortal heartbeats were so fast. How could one's body be in such a hurry when it's time was limited upon this earth? Legolas could not help but steal a look at his fingers' exploring path. When he looked back up, his face was but a hair's breadth from Aragorn's. 

The man could not hold this beautiful elven face once more and do nothing but look into it. So many times it had greeted him with an impish grin. Among the trees and thickets of Mirkwood, it appeared from nowhere. Aragorn had always secretly looked forward to the elf's jests. He would smile and look to his friend, but the abundance of affection he felt would soon show through and he would have to tilt his head to hide the unbidden emotion. Never before had he given in. Never before had he admitted to himself that this was possible. But now, after searching for weeks and teasing the prince-ling for two more besides, he found that he could not hold back. The feeling returned, brighter and more robust than ever. He took the soft elven lips into his in one fluid movement. 

Legolas pushed back against him. Admittedly, he wanted this, however they had never touched so intimately before. He was unsure of the customs of men when it came to such interactions. He, himself, had limited knowledge in general, despite his age and experience in the world. Regardless, it excited him and he longed for Aragorn's mouth upon his own. It was very confusing and he needed a moment to think.

"Wait," Legolas looked down, breathless.

Aragorn's hands remained, his thumbs moving in gentle circles on the elf's face. His own face was calm, awaiting his companion with patience and affection. Steel blue eyes once again rose to meet his. Legolas absently ran his tongue over his lips. Aragorn saw this and barely withstood claiming those lips for his own; even going so far as to lurch forward with want. This time the elf did not flinch nor push back. His breath escaped from his moistened lips with fervor and his head nodded slightly. It was all the approval the man needed. He surged forward and kissed the elven prince with all the passion of an age apart.

They grabbed on to each other then, as if they were about to fall from the edge of a precipice. Aragorn’s tongue searched inside Legolas’ mouth, pulling on him, sucking on his bottom lip. The elf, in response, forcefully seized the velvet cloth of the man’s garment and pushed him against a nearby tree. The star-like snowflakes rained down upon them, and their crests became adorned in white. The tinsel flew about the two, as each movement sent more little doves loose amid the wintry zephyr. The cold did not claim them that day. Held back by a love so ardent that the very air around them became a wall of autumn, a heat reserved for the last days before a well deserved sleep, encircled the pair. Time was transparent then. It brought about a realization that neither had envisioned before. This feeling, this growing fondness that was kindled by the acquaintance of long days and travels concluded with a short embrace, no longer remained hidden behind unspoken confessions. It was set free between them, never to return to its cold and silent chains. Winter had come to Middle Earth, but the spring between them had only begun to blossom.

***

Now he stood there by the open ocean, and the breeze hit his pale skin like a melody, “The waves run deep today, their leaps are met with an even further plunge,” the elf turned his head to look over his sea swept shoulder with melancholy. His gaze lowered, “I will not see you come next turn of the leaf...”

“No, indeed, you will not see me...the leaves will make their turn without me, I fear,” the ranger’s head came to rest beside Legolas’ pinnacled ear. The grey strands of his hair fell along his shoulder. And the elf need not have turned to see the sadness resting on the aged face beside him. Aragorn was still the most handsome man he had ever encountered.

“We shall meet again, Aragorn,” Legolas peered out across the tumultuous ocean, knowing it held the future back; knowing that one day, it would reach the shore. The black birds circled amidst orange and purple shadows, defining the edge of day, “And until that time, this moment shall hang as a great banner in my mind. It is all I will see whilst mine eyes are shut.”

If an elf were to cry, which they do not do lightly, this would be one time such a rare event would occur. And the former ranger felt this change, not needing to see the snowflake tears drifting over wind-flushed cheeks. His head lifted from the princely shoulder and he moved about Legolas, his arm resting across his shoulders. They both angled inward, closing in the gap at their side. Aragorn’s head leaned in, and Legolas’ leaned back; their foreheads touched softly. The mortal's hands once again came to cradle the beautiful elven face, as they had first done so many years before, in a quiet, snowy wood of the North.

“We shall stand together again, my friend.”

“And I look forward to it...,” Legolas smiled slightly, a laugh coming stifled and sorrowful, “...with all the fear my life will afford me,” his hands grabbed Aragorn's wrists, and he caressed the skin as his breath came in long draws, hitching in between with grief-stricken regrets.

"Do not fear for me, meleth nin." 

Their lips met then, holding to each other until the last possible moment. For a kiss in farewell was always the most bittersweet.

Aragorn, the noble and aged King of Gondor, now took his leave to stare out across the molten expanse. Keeping one hand anchored to his love, lest the lovely and virtuous waves take him. He had not yet looked deliberately at it, for he knew what it held behind a fervent current. But presently, the choice was no longer his own. The future would come; and he would not again see the elf, whom he held so dear, until the End of Days. But all would find place; for in this above all else, he trusted in Eru Ilúvatar. His eyes closed and sent forth two small streams of tears ere held by his lashes. It was time to face his challenge, which in his heart had lingered all along. It had paced it's time until now. This was not the Grey Havens of the far West, but it sought him out in the place most precious to him. Coming to the wind-swept shore to greet it's brave charge, it's strong hand firmly grasped Aragorn's outstretched.

The years now passed before the former ranger’s eyes, whilst the present held fast his heart. They occurred simultaneously...

And then it stopped.

He had not meant to leave so quickly.

The End


End file.
